


Thirty One

by one_golden_sun



Series: Poly Gay Trio Modern AU [14]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Birthday, Death, Grief/Mourning, Little Space, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Memories, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_golden_sun/pseuds/one_golden_sun
Summary: John's 31st Birthday





	Thirty One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparkle_Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Prince/gifts).



> This was heavily inspired by [Reshille's gorgeous piece on tumblr.](https://reshille.tumblr.com/post/166883176282/happy-birthday-my-dearest-john-laurens)
> 
> Please note there is talk of death and dying, loss of a parent, and grief. 
> 
> Happy birthday John Laurens.

Last year John’s birthday had been so over the top, so extra, he had preemptively told Laf and Alex that he wanted something lower key this year. Turning 31 was anticlimactic anyway, he was officially old, an adult, a grown up and as much of a distraction their trip last year had been from facing the dark prospect of _ageing_ , this year nothing seemed enough to shake him from his melancholy mood. 

With his birthday on a Saturday this year, Alex and Laf were both home, tried to start the day smothering him with love, early morning cuddles, maybe even some sex, but John just rolled over, buried his face in the pillow and said nothing. Told his boyfriends to go about their normal day, run their errands, Laf go to yoga class, leave him and his old self alone. 

Alex and Lafayette exchanged a look, but quietly took their leave, letting John know they’d be back in a few hours. When he got like this, his boyfriends knew he needed space, he needed quiet, he needed to simmer in his pissy mood until it broke like a fever. 

Quiet in the apartment. John spent a good chunk of time laying on his back, staring at the crisscrossing shadows made by the celing fan. It wasn’t the future that was bothering him, making him sad. It was looking back. 

He missed his mom. 

Growing up, back when his mom was alive, when his dad was still happy, birthdays were a big deal. Henry always insisted on gifts for Eleanor as well, since, as he put it so eloquently, it was the anniversary of her actually doing all the work to birth their lovely children. John remembered his mother’s smile over the breakfast table, his father serving them pancakes (his always had chocolate chips, and Henry made the pancake into the face of a cat), the two of them singing along to whatever song was playing on the oldies station. Gifts for mom happened after breakfast. Henry presenting her with some beautifully wrapped box. A piece of vintage jewelry. An original copy of a book she loved. A photograph Henry had taken, set in a sterling silver frame. Tickets to a play she wanted to see. Every year, something different, something special, something picked out carefully and thoughtfully. 

And every year, the same reaction; Eleanor would hug his father around the neck, say “Oh Hank, it’s perfect!” and they’d spin around in the kitchen, everyone laughing and the music playing and the smell of breakfast so sweet it made John’s teeth ache. 

After breakfast, his mom would always insist on doing what the birthday boy wanted, and it was the same thing every year. A trip to the aquarium (or zoo if it was nice enough), followed by lunch at his favorite hamburger place, then a walk on the beach before it was dark. Hand in hand they’d look for shells in the waves, braving the icy water on their toes. Shells to add to his collection, all perfectly arranged and lined up on the shelf his father had put up in his room.

John could still remember his last birthday with her. 14. She was six months pregnant with Jemmy at the time, and even with swollen ankles and the lingering morning sickness, she insisted on their beach walk. John was at that age where he was almost too cool to hang out with his mom, and would never admit it to the few friends he did have, but he was close to his mom, genuinely enjoyed the time the spent together. Her gait was slow on the beach, and her belly made it impossible to bend to pick up the shells, she just pointed, named them, John practically crawling in the waves to collect them, the hem of his shorts soaked. He didn’t stand up quick enough when one wave rolled in, and it knocked him over, straight onto his butt in the wet sand. Eleanor laughed so hard, she was doubled over, her black curls whipping in the wind.

“I am so sorry, honey,” she said, tears of laughter on her cheeks, mixing with the sea spray. “The look on your face was perfect.” And even though he was wet and cold, John laughed too, the sand dollar he’d been going for clutched triumphantly in his outstretched hand. 

John sat up, scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He didn’t want to cry on his birthday, alone in the apartment. He was 31 for fuck’s sake. 

What he wanted to do was sit in the sun, in the quiet and draw. Wanted to...needed to...get these memories on paper and in ink, desperately needed to take his mother’s face, her laughter, the joy in the kitchen, the ocean in her eyes, out of his head and into something real. John pulled on one of Lafayette’s sweaters, ocean blue, pulled on the slouchy red beanie Eliza had knit for him when he was too lazy to go to the bathroom to pin back his hair. Eschewed pants, wanted to feel the late October sun on his legs before winter made its entrance. 

Sat in the chaise in the corner of the living room, next to the French doors that led to their balcony. The light was just right, warming him, waking him up. This far up in their high rise, away from the street, it was quiet. Relished the silence. Opened his sketchbook, past the drawings of strangers, of his boyfriends, of flowers and dogs in the park and himself, found a blank page. Paper creamy under the pads of his fingers. Plucked a pencil from the metal vintage lunchbox that housed his art supplies. The lunchbox was goodwill find, courtesy of Alex, depicted a Norman Rockwell-esque painting of a young boy fishing in a pond, a turtle caught on his line. Tip of his pencil hovered over the fresh, blank page. 

15 was much worse than 14. By 15, everything had changed. His mother was gone. Jemmy was there, a fussy, almost angry baby that demanded most of his father’s attention. Henry Jr. was now afraid of every little thing, wetting the bed at age five, prone to night terrors and bouts of extreme anxiety. And Marty, a straight A student, soccer star, ballet dancer, well loved by her classmates, never any trouble, had gotten herself suspended for beating up another girl in the lunchroom that very week.

His birthday that year was a Sunday. Henry had hauled the rest of the family off to mass, didn’t even bother trying to force John, who had stopped pretending to believe in God the day of his mother’s funeral. The house had been quiet. His birthday wasn’t mentioned until dinner, when his father wordlessly slid him an envelop. Generic card, signed “Happy birthday, love Dad,” and two one-hundred dollar bills tucked inside. Gruff “Thank you, sir,” with a one armed hug. Sadness hung like a cloud over the dinner table, even when their housekeeper Della brought out a chocolate cake she had baked, set it in front of John. Fifteen candles (plus one for good luck) cast shadows on his face. His family sang. He saw nothing but the flames. Didn’t want to bother wishing, knew nothing would ever make it so, but couldn’t stop the thought before it sprang to the front of his mind. 

_I wish my family could just be happy again._

Blew out the candles, all sixteen, one go. Cake tasteless in his mouth. When he went to bed that night, he tucked the cash his dad have given him into an old paperback and shelved it. 

Without thinking, John’s hand skated across the page, pencil loose in his fingers, slowly, slowly, the shapes fading to life. The profile of her face as she scanned the ocean debris at her feet, tumbling in the churning wave line. Smile lingering at the corner of her lips. Curls tumbling down her back, the wind catching them, lifting a few stray tendrils. Pointing, reaching, directing John to their next find. 

That’s how Alex and Lafayette found him, curled up on the chaise, the early afternoon sun lighting him from behind. Soft in Lafayette’s blue sweater, curls tumbling down his shoulders, looking cozy and engrossed. Laf went to set down the grocery bags, and Alex padded over to John, laid a hand on his bare thigh. 

“Hey, birthday boy,” he teased softly, stroking John’s soft, sun-warmed skin. John looked up from his sketch pad, small sad smile as he greeted Alex. 

“How was shopping, honey?” John asked. Automatically scooched to make room for Alex on the chaise, closing his eyes and humming with pleasure as Alex slotted their bodies together, arm slung over his hips. Planted a gentle kiss on his bare shoulder where the too-big sweater had slipped down.

“Fine. I had to stand in line at Trader Joe’s while Laf ran around the store, supermarket sweet style. The line was wrapped around the damn place.” 

John snorted at the image, of Lafayette darting around the other shoppers, his list in hand, muttering to himself in French. 

“You feeling any better?” Alex asked. His hand slipped lower, starting a firm rub on John’s bare tummy. “Ready to actually celebrate your birthday? Since you decided to be nakkie from the waist down and all…” 

“Maybe later,” John said gently, brought Alex’s hand to his lips, kissed his knuckles. “Want to finish this piece.” 

“It’s your day, baby boy,” Alex replied. Smile in his voice. Went back to holding John, watched him work silently for a few minutes. “We stopped at Junior’s, picked you up a cheesecake.” 

John’s pencil paused. On one hand, he knew how much Alex and Laf both hated venturing to midtown, and the thought that they braved the crowds on a Saturday to fetch him one of his favorite desserts warmed him greatly. On the other hand--

“I thought Lafayette was going to bake a cake.” Could hear the smallness creeping into his voice. Shit. 

“Is that what you would like, little one?” Lafayette came and sat on the end of the chaise, John and Alex both tucking their feet to make room. 

“Yeah...kinda…” John sucked on the end of the pencil for a second, his gaze falling into his lap. “Feel bad, though. You guys went all that way…”

Lafayette waved his hand, shook his head. “It is no matter, my darling. It is your birthday. You shall have two cakes!”

John giggled. Forced himself to stay present, stay big; he usually couldn’t focus on drawing when he was in little space, and he wanted to finish this picture. It was fighting to get out of him, boiling under his skin. 

Normally, he hated letting his boyfriends watch him work. It made him nervous, but today, their weight on the seat, their warmth, their familiar smells surrounding him, was a comfort. Kept him here, kept him present. John didn’t know how much longer he worked; shading in her shadow on the sand, working to capture the gentle folds of the silk of her sundress. Could practically hear her voice and the waves, calling his name, naming the shells. Lightning whelk. Lettered olive. Scallop. Cat’s paw. Cardita. 

“Done,” he said softly. Turned the sketchbook to show Lafayette and Alex, exhaling as if the weight sitting on his chest suddenly lifted. Couldn’t look at their faces as they took in his piece. Didn’t really want to show them, but felt like he needed to. Like he owed it to his mom to share her with them. 

“She’s lovely, Jack,” Alex breathed. Didn’t dare touch the drawing, didn’t want to smudge. 

“Yes; while I think all of your art is lovely, there is always something special when you draw Eleanor.” Lafayette lay down on his side in front of John, his eyes on his face. 

“Are you gonna color it?” Alex asked. “The blue of the ocean, the sky?” 

John shook his head, pinched his lips. Could feel the tears rising, wanted to stave off the inevitable. How could he explain to Alex that sometimes the best and worst memories looked better in black and white? In the crisp shadows of grayscale, it was no longer real? That a memory was its own breed of ghost? He could never capture the blue of the ocean, the warm honey of her eyes, the violet-black of her hair. Like trying to pin down the wind. 

“She called them ‘sea treasures,’” John said suddenly, surprised his voice didn’t shake. The other two waited, their collective silence thick, respectful. John rarely talked about his mother, and they wanted to give him the space to do so, carefully. “Not just shells. Rocks smoothed by the water. Skeletons of little crabs and stuff. Sand dollars. But shells…” John took a deep breath. His lungs felt too heavy. “Shells were her favorite.” 

He lifted to eyes to look at Laf, sitting directly in front of him. Alex’s arms around him from behind, his breath warm in his ear. “I’d like a chocolate cake, please,” he said. And burst into tears.

They didn’t have to ask why he was crying. Lafayette moved his sketch book out of the way and they closed in on him, sandwiching him between their bodies, holding him, letting him break down in their arms, weeping desperately. Cried until there were no more tears, his sobbing slowed into hiccups, felt the snot and the sweat on his face. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Think I got snot and tears on your sweater.” 

Lafayette just pet his hair, kissed his forehead. “It matters not, my baby,” he said. 

“Course it matters,” John rasped. “It’s cashmere, isn’t it?”

“Ah, merino, actually, I am thinking.”

“Ok, I know you’re having a moment, Jack, but you two are ridiculous,” Alex cut in, laughter lingering at the edge of his voice. “‘I got tears on my boyfriend’s cashmere sweater’ is the most champagne problem I heard in awhile.” 

John even cracked a grin at that. Glad Alex could joke, the slight bit of silliness filling the hole in his chest. 

“Merino sweater, Alexander.” Lafayette kissed John one last time, stretched and sat up. They all giggled. 

After John had calmed down enough, they followed Laf into the kitchen. Watched him dig out his grandmother’s chocolate cake recipe, tie on his apron. Chatted softly, happily while he worked. Let them lick the bowl. 

“You’re still wearing the snot sweater,” Alex pointed out. John in his lap, sucking the cake batter off a spoon. 

“I’ll take it off then,” John said cheekliy, pulled it over his head, it landing in a heap on the floor. Flashed them both a sneaky smile, hoping between his naked body draped in Alex’s lap, and the way he looked at Laf, they’d get the hint. 

John was often thankful for their plush, soft gray carpet in the living room, but never more than in these moments, when they couldn’t make it to the bedroom. Didn’t even care about the rug burn he’d have on his ass and back. Alex on his knees between his thighs, rolling in and out of him, like the tide, like waves, like the wind over the water. Lafayette on his side, his arm cradling and supporting John’s neck, free hand skimming the expanse of his body, light fingernails raising gooseflesh on his stomach and chest. Firm rub on his cock, not enough to get him there, but enough to send him floating. Alternated kisses, the rich bittersweetness of chocolate lingering on the back of his tongue. Both of them so close, so near, so perfect and precious to him.

And when he closed his eyes, the motion of Alex’s thrusting rocking him back and forth, Lafayette’s hand over his heart, their lips on his skin, on his mouth, in his ear, all he could see was the blue of the endless ocean.


End file.
